


Out of Tune

by animerag3



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Musicians, Simmons Dad is an asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-10-19 17:54:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animerag3/pseuds/animerag3
Summary: Grif’s life is mundane, as is anyone’s in which their only goal is just to make enough money to survive.  His sister manages to live life to the extreme despite their situation.  Which leads to her dragging him to a bar he’d rather not visit.  However, he wasn’t expecting to actually like the outing.  And want to go back.Simmons can’t let his father know he plays his cello with Donut at this run-down bar.  He can’t jeopardize his career with the symphony or sever the only professional connection with the music world he has.  After all, his father is the conductor.  But he can’t stop playing at the bar either.  It just feels right.





	1. Why Am I Here?

“I promise, you will enjoy this,” his sister said. Kai grabbed his arm and dragged him through the crowded bar, finding a table where several other people sat.

_ Great, _ Grif thought,  _ not only do I have to come out in public, but I have to interact with others. Specifically Kai’s friends. _ A shiver traveled up his spine as they approached the table. This would either be insanely awkward or insanely inappropriate. He knew he should have stayed home. 

“Yo, what up Kai,” a dark-skinned man shouted from the table.

“Oh the usual, hitting up chicks to get through my bi-phase, convincing them to help me set up my music festival, promising to suck dick but really extorting the guy for money,” Kai said as if it were the most casual thing to be doing on a Friday evening.

“Yeah. Wait what?” the guy looked her over in confusion. Grif snickered under his breath. No one ever gets used to her odd antics. Though to be fair, even though that was pretty typical behavior of Kai, the last statement threw him for a loop.

“What?!” Grif practically screeched, the comment finally hitting him.

“Oh calm down. Not like you guys haven’t seen a hussie get down and busy,” Kai said, sitting in her hip and flipping her brown wavy hair over her shoulder. 

“Oh dear God,” Grif muttered. Looks like they went down both awkward and inappropriate paths within the first few seconds of meeting her friends. He wanted to leave. 

“Anyways, this is my older brother, Dexter Grif!” she introduced him before he had the chance to sneak away towards the exit. 

He managed to get over his second-hand embarrassment enough to speak. “You can just call me Grif.” 

“What, you military or something?” the pale guy sitting across from him snidely remarked.

“No, I just don’t particularly care for my first name.” One too many people compare you to a serial killer and you don’t particularly feel like hearing it anymore. 

“Guess I can relate to that,” the guy said, slowly sinking back into his chair. “Name is Leonard Church, though you can just call me Church.”

Grif scoffed. “Really? You liked Church better than Leonard?”

“I have my reasons,” Church snipped. Okay then, touchy subject apparently.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” the first guy commented, “most of us have been going by last names for one reason or another. Kai is probably the only one who doesn’t.”

“That’s because Grif already took it,” she fake whined.

“Boo hoo, cry me a river,” Grif sarcastically lamented. Not like she ever wanted to go by Grif anyway. 

“Ooh, ooh, can I go next! Please!” The childishly enthusiastic voice cut through the ruckus. 

“Sure, Caboose,” Church patted the taller man on the shoulder.

“Yay! I’m Michael J. Caboose. It is a pleasure to meet you!”

“Again, just call him Caboose. He never responds to Michael as is,” Church stated.

The first guy to speak at the table extended his hand towards Grif. “I’m Lavernius Tucker-”

“La what now?” Grif said.

“Exactly, just call me Tucker, no one has been able to get the first name down and I hate it being butchered.”

“Oooh, oooh, Church, you should bring your sister now that Kai brought her brother!” Caboose exclaimed excitedly, bouncing up and down in his chair like a first grader.

Church grimaced. “Hell no, she wouldn’t enjoy this place, nor you guys for that matter.  _ I _ barely enjoy you guys.”

“Yet here you are,” Tucker remarked.

Church looked pointedly at Tucker. “Can it.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Grif whispered to his sister.

“Oh he’s always angry, that’s just who he is.”

“No, no, not him. The tall one, Caboose” he said, nodding to the blonde who had a big grin plastered on his face. 

“Oh, we don’t really know, he is one of Church’s old friends and he doesn’t say much about his past. He’s just...slow.”

“No shit,” Grif said. Kai elbowed him at the comment. Well then, more than one touchy subject at this table. He was gonna need a map to keep track of these emotional landmines soon.

“Well, what do we have here,” a southern accent boomed behind Grif. He flinched, not expecting someone to sneak up behind him. “The Blue’s keep getting new members every day.”

“Yeah yeah, and what are you going to do about it, Sarge?” Tucker chimed in.

The older man eyed Grif. “Why, I might just claim your new member for Red Team. They deserve one. The old ones aren’t that spectacular.”

“Whoa, watch what you say there, or you’ll cause Simmons to run crying to the bathroom again.”

“That boy needs to toughen up just a bit. Might do him some good. Maybe I should train him with some hand to hand combat.” Sarge put his fists up, miming what Grif supposed was a fistfight. 

“I’m pretty sure you’ll break him before he can defend himself,” Tucker replied. 

“That is the point! Once you physically break, you realize your mistakes and toughen up, hit back stronger.” Grif’s eyebrows knitted together. He was fairly certain breaking someone wasn’t the same as toughening them up. 

“That’s not how that works,” Church muttered loud enough for the table to hear.

“Anywho, what would you like to drink, sonny. I already have these guys' orders.”

Grif stared at the old man, then back to the rest of the table, unsure what the hell was happening anymore. “Uhh… I guess a Corona will be fine.”

“And if you ever have a wish to join the Red’s, you know where to find me.” With that, Sarge disappeared back into the crowd, most likely behind the bar.

Grif held up his hands in a T position. “Ok, time-out, what the fuck was that?” he asked.

Church decided to answer. “If you couldn’t tell, Sarge was military before he settled down into civilian life. Gets a little too carried away with the whole team thing. Apparently, we all came in wearing blue shirts or jackets or something once and he dubbed us Blue Team, while Donut, Sarge, and Simmons tend to wear red things and have been dubbed Red Team. There isn’t any actual conflict between us, it’s just his own thing.”

“Except when we play drinking games. Then the teams matter,” Tucker pointed out.

“Yeah, Blue Team always wins. Because we are the best, obviously.”  _ Wow,  _ Grif thought,  _ ego trip much? _ “Though to be fair, we do have more people on it. Even if Lopez is an honorary member of Red Team, he and Sarge are the only ones that can hold their liquor. We have Kai. And Tucker. And surprisingly Caboose. Which is enough to beat them out of the water every time.”

“Huh,” Grif said, unsure of what else he could say in the madness of what he had already witnessed. 

A wave of clapping consumed the bar. Grif looked up at the podium to see a shorter blonde man wearing a pink, what he presumed to be, tank top with a punk leather jacket over it, sporting a… violin. Well, that wasn’t the choice of instrument he had expected from the guy, but whatever. A taller guy with dim, almost maroon hair, made his way to the chair set up on stage. He sat down and took a cello out of his case. Grif snorted. The guy looked like he came right from the symphony, maybe a bit more casual than how they would dress, but a maroon button-up and black slacks were pretty formal for a bar.

“The one on the left is Donut, the one on the right is Simmons, the other two from Red Team.” Tucker leaned over to him and said.

“So, are we listening to classical music then?” Grif incredulously asked. “At a bar?”

“No, dummy, they play all sorts of songs. Rock, theme songs from movies and shows, current pop songs, they can do a lot. And it's really good,” his sister answered.

Grif hummed, watching as they set up and got their instruments tuned and ready.

“Hey everyone!” The crowd cheered as the blonde one waved out to them. “I’m glad you all could make it out tonight! But enough talking! Let’s get this show on the road!”

The crowd exploded. He might not have heard them yet, but Grif had a good feeling these guys might be decent and Kai was right for once.

The two on stage nodded at each other and began. The first song was one anyone would recognize. Smooth Criminal.

But dear Lord, Grif had never heard anyone play this song the way these two did. Hell, he never saw anyone play classical instruments the way they did. Most people he saw play them looked stiff as if the music was anything but beautiful.

These two flowed with it. Their bodies swayed. Their faces expressed what they felt. It was a whole rollercoaster of emotions splayed for the world to see.

Their bows were already fraying from the intensity of which they were striking the strings of their instruments. And the best part. They didn’t care. They were in their own world, away from the audience, just playing to their heart's content.

It was like that for every song. Kai was right. They did classic rock, pop, themes, mash-ups of classical and well-known songs. The audience cheered and sang songs they knew as they came up. They even hummed songs that didn’t have lyrics. Grif found himself joining in. It was surreal. Practically a concert. It should have been a concert.

How had he never seen or heard of these two before?

Not long had passed, or maybe a long time had passed, who knew, the two stopped, announcing they would take a break before hopping back up. The blonde sauntered off towards the bar, the redhead putting his stuff away.

“Donut! Simmons!” Kai screamed. The redhead shot up, scanning the crowd before his eyes rested on the table. He gave a soft smile, doing his best to make his way over through the ton of people jammed between them, getting pats on his shoulders and good jobs along the way.

“Hey, guys! How’s it been?” he said.

“Brilliant as always, Simmons, brilliant as always,” Tucker remarked. “If Junior could come, he would love it.”

Simmons flushed red at the compliment. “Well, he can always come to the symphony, we are performing soon.”

“Yeah, but it's not the same, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a slightly dejected look. 

“Ooh, Simmons, this is my brother, Dexter Grif, though he goes by Grif. He might be on Red Team, Sarge is trying to recruit him.”

“Of course he is,” Simmons said, reaching his hand out. “Nice to meet you, Grif.”

“Likewise. That was beautiful playing. I will say, I have been to many concerts and never have I been this hyped at one.” 

“This isn’t a concert,” Simmons chided.  _ Ok, _ Grif thought.  _ How can someone be offended by a compliment? _

“It should be. Am I wrong?” Grif looked around the table to see nothing but nodding heads.

“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” Simmons replied, a finality in his voice that signaled this conversation was over.

“Hey, guys!” The blonde squeezed himself between Kai and Grif. “I don’t believe I’ve met this one yet. Franklin Delano Donut!” he exclaimed, reaching his hand out to Grif.

“Donut, don’t get any ideas man, we just brought him here, we don’t need you scaring him away!” Tucker exasperated.

Donut put on puppy dog eyes, looking at Tucker. “I wasn’t going to hit on him or anything, God, you guys have no faith in me.”

“It’s because we know you, Donut,” Simmons said. 

“Grif,” the Hawaiin said, shaking the blonde’s hand and mentally reminding himself to keep his distance with this one.

“Oh, your Kai’s brother! How did you like the performance?”

“It was great, best playing I have seen in a while,” Grif answered. 

“Have you ever seen classical music concerts?” Simmons snipped.

_ Jesus, what was this guy’s problem? _ “Uh, no, but I can tell good music playing when I hear it,” Grif responded.

“How could you know what is good if you have nothing to compare it to?”  _ Seriously, was this guy just trying to pick a fight? Cause Grif can give that to him if he wants. _

“Simmons, hey, you know what, we need to go back up there, so let's go ahead and mozy on back, ok?” Donut tried to intercede.

“Fine,” Simmons muttered, turning his back on Grif.

When he was out of hearing range, Grif looked over at Tucker. “What the fuck is that dude’s problem?” 

“He’s always been touchy and sensitive, just ignore it, he snips back at all of us just as much about equally stupid things,” he replied. “You can bitch back, he’s got enough repressed sass to last a lifetime.”

“I hope so, he seems to be the one starting these fights.” Grif eased back into his seat, swiveling himself around to look at the stage as the two men got the crowd hyped for their next set. 

Even if the guy was an ass, he was a great musician, Grif would give him that. 


	2. Look At The Time

Ten forty-five. Not much longer. He could finish the next few songs, but after that, he needed to be gone.

"Hey, Donut-"

"Yeah, yeah, I see the time, only a few more and we'll wrap up, ok?" 

Simmons nodded. "Thanks."

Donut smiled, turning back to the audience of drunk strangers. "Okay everyone, we are gonna bang out a few more and call it a night!" Loud 'aws' and 'boos' started to build. "Now now, don't worry, we will be back here next week, so don't miss us then!" Donut nodded to Simmons. He let out a breath and picked up his bow, both of them ready to finish out their set. 

They played. And like usual, Simmons felt relieved. He didn't know what it was. The place? The songs? The people? Every time he played here, he felt, well, relaxed. Like he belonged. Like the music was a part of him. It was the only time anything felt right.

Just like that, the moment was gone. Over. It was eleven. He needed to leave now, and go back to the reality he wished would cease to exist.

He packed as quickly as he could. Donut was still boasting about upcoming performances when everything Simmons needed was back in its case. He always felt bad for leaving Donut to clean up the amps and all. But at least he was always understanding. 

"Goodnight everyone!" Donut waved and turned back to Simmons, who was ready to bolt. "Hey," Donut patted his shoulder, "say goodbye to the table before you leave."

"I'll try," he said, walking through the crowd of good jobs and congrats he mentally swatted away, knowing he wasn’t deserving of them. 

"Hey guys," he came up to the table. "Thanks for coming out again, I have to leave now though. Bye." 

"You mean you aren't gonna stay for a few drinks?" the new guy questioned.

"No," Simmons said stiffly. "Some of us cherish our livers and scheduled bedtimes, thank you."

"Dear God, you're one of those people." Simmons halted in his tracks.  _ Excuse me? _

"What’s that supposed to mean?" he accused. 

The heavyset man waved his hand in front of his face. "Nothing, forget it. Good playing man."

Simmons huffed before turning from the table and heading out. 

He hopped into his car. Spritzed a bit of cologne back on, not too much, just enough to keep off any alcoholic stench that might have brewed on his clothes. The same one he always wore, just to keep consistency and stave off any unwarranted questions. A quick check to make sure his clothes were still buttoned up properly. The engine came to life with the turn of his key, and off he was.

Simmons pulled into the driveway. He closed the front door to his house behind him after collecting his instrument, to be greeted by his father sitting in the adjacent living room.

“You seem to be getting later and later,” his father remarked.

“It's only 11:20pm, I’m ten minutes earlier than the curfew,” Simmons responded curtly.

His dad looked up over his book. Simmons glanced down. He still hated the judging, scrutinizing scan the man performed. 

“Well then,” his dad finally said, “off with you.”

Simmons nodded his head. “Goodnight.” He let out a quiet sigh as he climbed the stairs. It still seemed he was able to get away with playing at the bar. He didn’t know how much longer it would last, but at least for now his getaway was safe.

He quickly brushed his teeth and slipped into bed, thinking about what songs Donut would give him to transcribe for the following week.


	3. It Feels Like Nothing

“Admit it, Big Bro, you had the hots for him last night.”

“For the millionth time, Kai, I did not. As great as he played, he was a stuck up prude who probably wouldn’t give me the time of day if I asked for it,” Grif said in exasperation. Kai had been bugging him nonstop all weekend about the cello player. Just because he could swing that way if he wanted to didn’t mean he was about to go head over heels for some stupid prick he only just met. “I’m beginning to think you had me come with you just so you could set me up with him.”

“At first, nah, I wanted him for myself. But I learned he isn’t into girls and he wasn’t dating the violin player who was waaay obviously gay, so I figured I could throw him in your direction.”

“Gee, thanks, I love your leftovers,” Grif said in his monotone voice.

“Not like you have anyone in your life as it is,” Kai remarked.

“Because I don’t need anyone,” Grif retorted.

“Sure, sure, keep lying to yourself.”

Grif didn’t see the point in continuing this argument, it was only going to drag out until Kai said something ridiculous. Not like she already had. “I’m going to work, see you later. And don’t bring any more guys or girls over, you’re never in your room when you all are doing stuff and I hate walking in on it.”

“Only because you never get to do it,” Kai remarked.

Grif felt his breakfast churn in his stomach. “Please, dear God, never say that again.”

  
“Fine. Bye, Big Bro!”

He headed off to the bus stop. On his way to a job that he hated to make money that he needed just to stay alive. Yep. What a wonderful world. Though he wasn’t the only one. Seemed like everyone was required to go through the same rigamarole. How depressing. 

What was the point of living again? Made you question why you were even here.

He wasn’t suicidal. He liked living. He just didn’t see the point in it. Why be here if you were going to be stuck in a rat race your whole life? Didn’t matter the times you lived in. Everyone was a slave, whether it be to a person or a system. What a forsaken world it was.

No point in questioning reality when you are off to a job in which the tasks are so remedial you might as well just freaking nap the whole time. He had done it before too. Though he had been caught. It was kind of obvious you weren’t doing your job at a call center. If you aren’t talking on the phone, then what was the point of hiring you? 

He needed the money. Grif and his sister were barely making rent as it was. It sounded like his sister’s show business stuff might take off soon. But in the meantime, they needed every little bit they could get.

A sigh escaped him as the building came into sight. Forced to face the reality of life. It was either deal with it, or live on the streets. Grif had been angry for so long. Nowadays it faded to nothing but passive cynicism. It was better than nothing, he told himself.


	4. Stress

They finally got their break. The conductor, or better known to Simmons as his father, was stressed. Simmons should have known. This concert was going to be the biggest one they performed all season. His father had pushed everyone past their limits day one. Simmons could see why. You kind of needed to with the upcoming performance heralding in soon. But his fingers had cramped within the first hour of rehearsal and he had to suffer the next hour and a half trying to either hit notes and muffle a pained noise or miss them altogether.

His father definitely gave him an eye over when he finally called for a break. Simmons got up as fast as he could, hoping to avoid his disconcerting eyes. 

Glares were sent his way from the other musicians, especially those in strings, as he stalked over to the coffee table. They were going to have to repeat some sections. Everyone had already practiced their pieces on their own. Everyone but him. And it was  _ very _ obvious. 

He never skimped out on rehearsing on his own time. But he hadn’t felt particularly up to learning his bits. He had heard the pieces a million times. Played them on different instruments. Played some of them on his cello for college performances. He thought he could manage.

Apparently not.

Another person slid next to him as he poured himself a cup of dingy black coffee that had been sitting on the table longer than Simmons wanted to know.

“How are you?” Donut whispered. Simmons ground his teeth together. Donut knew better than to talk to Simmons here.

“Fine,” he said and spun around to walk back to his seat. He should be able to finish the small cup by then.

“Hey, later?” Donut whispered before he could go far. 

Simmons froze. He should be practicing for the show later. Making sure everything went as smoothly as possible. Avoid the absolute fuck up he did today. Yet, he wanted to know what Donut had in mind as a playlist for next Friday. They couldn’t play this week due to the symphony performance, but their time slot for following weeks had been saved by Sarge, who Simmons guessed had enough say at the bar to schedule in bands. He wanted to know what songs Donut would pick. What new melodies he could transcribe and play at his leisure. 

“Yes,” he said as he continued his trek back. His mind was stuck between freaking out about the upcoming concert and daydreaming about crowds singing along with him as he played well-known tunes. 

It causes more mistakes, more glares, more of his father calling to repeat sections, and ultimately more anxiety over what he just agreed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both chapters 3 and 4 were kind of short, so I decided to post them at the same time. Enjoy :)


	5. Why is Getting Food So Hard?

Grif doesn’t get his lunch break until three.

Technically he doesn’t start his job until eleven in the morning, so of course his lunch wouldn’t be right at noon. He still wished was able to eat sooner.

He always kept snacks in his drawer, no one was going to stop him. Didn’t matter if it was against the rules or not. Snacks were going to be in his drawer. It was a given. The only close food place was the cafe around the block. Last thing he wanted was to exercise to get food. 

Today, he had to compromise though. For somehow, he managed to run out of snacks.

“God. Fucking. Dammit,” he exclaimed when he had opened his drawer this morning. How could he have forgotten? What sorcery was this?

So here he was. Outside. Drenched in sweat. To get food. Why was life always filled with endless suffering?

He walked into the cool building. A chalkboard menu was set up above the barista. Looked like they had sandwiches. Meh. Oooh, but they also had croissants. And donuts. And cakes. Cake sounded good. He ordered coffee and cake. At an outrageous price, sure, but he could splurge just this once. A spectacular lunch for champions and gods alike.

He looked around at where to sit while holding his table number. He usually went for the seats in the corners, far away from everyone, but it seemed all those seats were taken, so he guessed he could settle for-

Wait a minute. The two by the window looked kind of familiar. Where had he seen them? He stared at them for a minute before one of them ended up looking over at him. He was about to avert his gaze and just go sulk somewhere when the hand belonging to the guy eagerly waved at him to come over.

The other guy looked up. Their eyes locked and instantly Grif remembered where he had seen them. It was the violinist and cello player from the other night.

Oh dear God, why did I have to come here of all places, he thought.

“Heeeyy!” The greeting drawled out of the blonde. He had some kind of stupid name, what was it? Dorian? “Your Kai’s brother, right? Grif?”

“Yeah,” he responded. The redhead…Simmons wasn’t it? He pointedly looked away from Grif like he wanted nothing but for him to move on and sit at another table. 

What a friendly guy.

“Come sit down with us!” the blonde exclaimed. Grif warily looked at Simmons before deciding to sit down next to the blonde in the booth. “What brings you here?”

“Um, my work is down the street, and I ran out of snacks, so I was forced to come here since it is the nearest food place there is.” Grif hesitates, unsure if he should ask why they are there. Did he really care?

“Oh, lovely! This place is great! Not close to where we work, but it has some of the best sandwiches in the city! They spread those creamy toppings on thick, just how I like it.”

“Dear God, Donut, please don’t say stuff like that!” Simmons finally added to the conversation.

Donut, that was the name. Like he thought, a stupid one too.

“What, it’s hard not to moan at the thought of juicy meat!”

Grif couldn’t help but let a little grunt escape him. He had to admit, that one was pretty funny. He hoped the guy was doing this on purpose.

“Jesus, I’m surrounded by children,” Simmons said.

One of the baristas stopped by, dropping off Grif’s cake and coffee.

“Who eats cake for lunch?!” Simmons nearly screeched, face wrinkled in disgust.

“Uh, anyone with a lick of sense,” Grif responded.

“How is cake for lunch common sense?! It’s a dessert! It goes at the end of a meal! It’s not supposed to be the main course!”

“That implies that I care about the rules society imposes on food. And frankly, I couldn’t give a fuck.”

“It’s not a societal rule! You need to eat other foods to get your nutrients! Dessert is just for fun! It’s not supposed to be a meal.”

“I don’t think the cake likes hearing you call it subpar to a meal.”

“The cake doesn’t have ears! It can’t hear!”

“Shh, it’s alright, I’ll protect you,” Grif pretended to stroke the slice and protect it from Simmons’ glare.

Simmons finally huffed in defeat, deciding it wasn’t worth it to argue anymore. Point one, Grif. 

“Anyways,” Simmons moved on, “Donut, we don’t have much more time before I have to head back. Are there any other songs you were thinking of playing?”

Grif’s interest was piqued. “Yeah, uh, so we have the list I gave you. I also feel like we should add in a couple more pop songs, I will let you know what those are, then just stick with some songs we have already played, that way we aren’t too stressed this week. If you want to add some at any point, feel free.”

“Sounds good.” Simmons stood up, taking his tray of plates to the trash bin and promptly leaving without so much as a goodbye. 

“See ya, Simmons!” Donut shouted. So Grif guessed the guy’s name correctly. Point two, Grif. “Ya know, he’s really wound up tight a lot. But that was some quality bickering for only have seen each other once before. He’s never talked this much to anyone else!”

“What can I say,” Grif said as he shoved the last bit of cake into his mouth, “I’m a natural when it comes to being an asshole.”

“Aw, well at least I have lots of experience with those!”

Grif didn’t know if Donut meant people or … the jocular atmosphere fell short in just one sentence of being alone with the guy, and Grif promptly left in the same manner Simmons did, farewells shouted at his receding back.


	6. Just Once More

The cello strings reverberated around his room, against his fingers. Back and forth, he needed to drill these pieces in. He’d done them before, he can do them. He just needs to focus, to practice.

It’d been getting better over the past hour. Immediately after the coffee shop excursion, he came home and locked himself in his room. Well, not locked, he didn’t have a lock on his door, but tucked himself away and hasn’t left yet. It had gotten better, but he was still missing notes when he needed to execute them.

It wasn’t so much that he wasn’t able to do them. He was. He just wasn’t doing them the way a symphony needed them played. He was playing it as if he was going to go down to the bar and whip it out in front of everyone. 

If he played like that, he would get his head chopped off. Fired from the symphony. Maybe even kicked out of his home. He probably should have left by now, found his own place, but it was hard to pass up free housing. It was offered. With many added benefits. As long as he performed well and followed expectations, he could stay here. Stay in the symphony. It’s just the way it was. How it had always been.

He had heard the front door open, heavy footfalls that resembled his father’s. The footsteps retreated into the living room. This evening was going to be better. Simmons just needed to get the music back in his body again. He could prove he wasn’t completely incompetent.

His playing continued well into the night. Until he heard his door open and his father come into his room with an unreadable expression. Simmons stopped playing, his shoulders shrinking down.

“Stop playing, you’re going to upset the neighbors.” Simmons looked at his father's shoes, nodding. “If you had played well today, you wouldn’t have needed to practice it until the sun lowered.” A flush fell on Simmons’ face, embarrassed at his earlier failures. His father turned to leave, muttering “useless,” under his breath. 

The door clicked shut. Simmons let out a breath he hadn’t realized he held. The edges of his eyes stung, but he wouldn’t let himself cry. He had been called worse, experienced worse. This was nothing. He was just a little distracted was all. He was capable of being the best. He just needed to show it. Then maybe his father would give him the recognition he yearned for. Maybe he would see that proud light that used to shine in his eyes.

He picked the bow back up, setting the cello down. His mind repeated the melody, his hands mimicking the patterns they would make on the instrument. Just a little more practice. It was all he needed. Just more practice. Then he could be worth something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, I know! Sorry for the slightly late update as well, I'm a performing artist and this week was hectic with rehearsals and performances. Thankfully, I already had a lot written for all my updating fics, but I didn't have time to edit them. Hopefully, I will get more time in the upcoming days!


	7. Is It Still Monday?

“And then, she was like ….”

“Hm,” Grif hummed, trying his best to feign interest in what his sister was blabbing about now. He couldn’t focus on the conversation. He learned how to tune his sister’s voice out long ago. It wasn’t his fault that she didn’t talk about things he particularly cared for.

“You’ve got that far away look again, Dex. Jesus, do you ever listen?”

“Hm,” Grif hummed in the same monotone voice again, just to get under her skin. It worked too. She huffed as she got up from the kitchen table, blabbing about how he was going to be surprised one day about something she said and it wasn’t going to be her fault he would be surprised. 

_ Yeah, yeah, whatever, _ he thought. There wasn’t much more she could do to surprise him in this world. She started talking about going out tonight when the encounter from earlier today flashed through his mind.

He didn’t think as the words escaped him. “Oh, guess who I ended up seeing today?”

Kai dramatically gasped. “You saw someone? Oh my God, my little Dex is growing up!”

He already regretted adding to the conversation. “Please for the love of God, shut up.”

“Who was it?” she implored.

“Not sure I want to say now.”

“You’re the one that brought it up, no take-backs!”

Grif groaned. “Fine, it was the cello and violinist from the bar, Donut and Simmons.”

“Ooh, what are you doing, stalking them?”

“No! I ran out of snacks at work and went to the nearby cafe. Stop making everything so goddamn weird!”

“Sure, sure, that was all it was.”

He dropped his head back onto the couch he was laying on. “Now I regret bringing it up.”

“Why did you?”

Grif shrugged. “I don’t know, they’re your friends aren’t they?”

“Kind of? I really only know Tucker, but the rest of the gang he is with is cool, and I guess they all know each other somehow. Don’t know.” Kai came back into view, stuffing her face with a peanut butter sandwich. 

“You never asked?”

“Nah, never saw the point.”

Grif rolled his eyes. And here she was yelling at him for not listening. 

“Anyways, I won’t be here tomorrow morning,” she stated. “As much as I hate waking up in the mornings, I need to meet with the others and see if we can get this show business crap on the road. Funding has been a bitch. No one wants to throw money at something unless it is already up and running.”

Grif frowned. He rarely saw Kai care so much for something. She had been spending the last month dedicating her time to get this business of hers opened. “Why does this matter so much to you?” he asked. “Not that I don’t support it, but it seems to be causing you a lot of stress lately. It’s all you seem to talk about. Besides your usual crap.”

It was Kai’s turn to roll her eyes at her brother. “Because it is the only thing I’ve ever been happy about,” she confessed. “I want to help struggling artists. Sometimes the best way to do that is to be a sort of agent for them. Help them find gigs. With how much I get around, I’ve been able to find all sorts of opportunities. It’s how I managed to get Donut and Simmons to play at the bar. Donut expressed interest and I knew Sarge well enough to convince him to let them play. For good pay too! Even though now I am a ‘Dirty Blue,’” she tried to imitate the southern accent of the bar owner. Grif snorted. “I’m good at it. And I like it.” Kai got up, heading towards her room. Grif barely heard her whisper, “it’s better than working a call center job just to scrounge up money for the rest of my life.”

She turned the corner, leaving Grif shocked and dazed at the jab and revelation. She wasn’t wrong. It’s not like he was particularly happy these days, especially with his shit job. But he just chalked it up to life. He had accepted it. Didn’t think beyond survival. As long as he had a roof over his head and food on the table, he could get by. Happiness didn’t factor into that.

He should have known it would be different for Kai. She always was more outgoing than him. It was only a matter of time before she wanted out of the humdrum pitiful life they lived. Even if the life she wanted to pursue wouldn’t make the money they needed, at least she got the emotional fulfillment. 

Grif rubbed his eyes, turning over on the couch and curling up. He didn’t need an existential crisis right now. He needed a nap. Or just to go to bed. Bed sounded good. He rolled off the couch, shutting the door to his room and promptly collapsing on the mattress, the heaviness in his body forcing him to refuse to put effort into changing out of his work clothes. 


	8. So You Agree?

Day two of rehearsals. He was doing better, the symphony didn’t have to constantly repeat scores due to his incompetence. It didn’t help the tension around everyone though as his father chewed each person out. Donut got another earful for putting his own twang into one of the violin solo sections he had been given. Several others heard similar criticisms or straight-up insults about their playing. It led to lower morale today than he had seen in quite some time. 

Simmons had played with this symphony for several years now. Some new people had joined since. The most recent was Donut, and to be fair he wasn’t doing much to make himself seem appealing to the conductor. His father had been reluctant enough to give him the position, but it was obvious from his audition he was a prodigy brimming with talent and training, even if he wasn’t the most conventional player. 

His father told him to stay away from Donut. Don’t let his “impulses,” rub on you.

Oh, if only his father knew.

However, Donut had been the only person in the symphony to talk to him. Everyone thought Simmons got his place due to his father’s position. It was probably true. Simmons may have the awards to show he belonged there, but there was no point in trying to prove something to people that wouldn’t even bother to consider it. But that meant he and Donut always had to talk somewhere else after rehearsals. Simmons had managed to give a lame excuse of going to his favorite practice rooms at their studios downtown. He didn’t think his father bought it, but he never challenged it.

Donut would have never been his first choice in a friend. Too flamboyant. Too many innuendos and lewd jokes. Too optimistic and carefree about everything around him. Their outlooks and personalities clashed. 

The one thing they had in common though? Music. And Donut had exposed him to so much more than the strict classical bullshit he grew up with. He showed Simmons how much more music could be. What it was like when it reached transcendence amongst crowds of people. It wasn’t merely a beautiful tool. It was life. It gave a whole new meaning to Simmons.

It became a drug. One he hadn’t realized he needed so badly. It took effort now to concentrate on the strict pace and tones in rehearsals. Why would you go back to playing that way when there was a plethora of soul he could infuse into each piece? He took more pleasure in playing a two-minute rock song on his cello than a whole two-hour concert ever could bring. Each time the sets were over at the damn bar, he craved for the next week. It dug into him, clawed into his chest. The blood vessels ached and longed to go back and exhaust themselves. His mind begged to reach the zen mode when he got lost in the moment. 

It was a drug. And he knew it would be the end of him. 

He didn’t care as he approached Donut in the parking lot. He was getting more and more careless about appearing with him.

“Hey, Donut, can we practice next week’s set at your place?” he spewed out. Donut looked up from the helmet he was holding in shock before recovering himself and answering Simmons.

“Are you sure? The last thing you need is for your dad to -”

“I know! But I want to practice. It’s been itching at me. Please, just this once,” he whined.

Donut shrugged. “Ok, fine with me. You remember the address? It’s been a while since we practiced.”

“I think I can find it, I’ll call you if I have any problems.”

“Sounds good, see you in an hour?”

“Yep.”

Donut hopped on his bike, revving the engine as Simmons walked over to his car. His vision blurred as he sat down in the driver’s seat, a reminder he hadn’t eaten since eight this morning, and it was well past two in the afternoon. Sighing, he put the car in drive and headed towards the sandwich shop he and Donut had been at the other day.

A bit of a creature of habit one could say. Since Donut had shown him the place, it was the only spot in town he went to other than the rehearsal studio, performance hall, bar, and home. He didn’t count Donut’s place since he’d only been there once to discuss how they would perform at a low key venue the first time they got the gig. Besides, he could use some coffee. Not that the caffeine would do anything other than make his body jittery. He was permanently tired. Always had been and always would be, nothing could fix that.

He pulled in, already daydreaming of the different riffs he could do with the new and old songs for next week. He ordered his food on autopilot and went to his usual seat when he saw someone already occupying it.

Not just someone. That fucking loser from yesterday.

Why did the universe throw shit at him at every opportunity it could?

Should he go sit with him? He was a friend of a friend, so it would be the appropriate thing. But he could go hide in another corner and they could pretend to have never seen each other.

Before that thought could end, the guy looked over at his direction, eyes hovering on his frozen figure. 

Well, shit. No avoiding now.

“‘Sup,” the guy said. Grif was it? Had to be, Simmons remembered him being the brother to Kai. 

“Hello,” Simmons stated, sitting across from the overweight tan man. He had a gut feeling this would turn into one of those awkward silent situations neither of them wanted to be in.

Guess his gut was wrong.

“You look like shit,” Grif bluntly said.

_ What kind of fucking greeting is that?!  _ Simmons thought. “Excuse me?!” he nearly screeched. “What do you mean  _ I _ look like shit? Have  _ you _ seen yourself recently?”

“Yeah, my reflection said this is one hundred percent pure awesome that no one can aspire to.”

_ The cocky confidence of this guy _ . Simmons bristled at the snarky response. “Does one hundred percent of pure awesome include a diet of nothing but cake and coffee?” he retorted, noticing that the man was eating the exact thing as he did yesterday.

“Of course. This place has the best fucking cake I’ve had in a while, I’m not giving up on that opportunity now that it has presented itself to me.”

“No, but your arteries will collapse before you have the chance to give it up,” Simmons remarked.

“Best way to go,” Grif shrugged, digging back into the chocolate slice.

“What?!” Simmons screeched.  _ Unbelievable, who the fuck is this guy?! _ “That’s gotta be one of the most painful ways!”

“What is the most painful way to die?” Grif asked. Simmons was about to give another snarky retort when he realized Grif was asking seriously. It threw him off.  _ Did he want an actual response? _

Simmons’ voice calmed down as he contemplated the question. “Uh, I don’t know. I would think fire, maybe? It takes a while before you finally pass out from the pain.”

Grif pointed his fork at Simmons. “I think it would be starvation. It takes, what, a month for you to fully die from starvation?”

“Forty-five days, though of course, it depends on the person and if you die from other things first,” Simmons had memorized this in case of...you know...apocalypse scenarios. Always had to be prepared. “You would most likely die of infections or disease before you died of starvation, and it depends on if you stayed hydrated within that time.”

“See, starvation wins.”

“Not necessarily. What about torture? Dying in the most brutal ways, losing your mind, essentially dying a husk of yourself?”

“But couldn’t you numb yourself from the pain?”

“Maybe if you’re a goddamn Buddha monk, I’d highly doubt  _ you _ could do such a thing! You can’t even go a day without cake!”

“You’re right, starvation is the worst.”

Simmons huffed out in resignation.  _ There is just no normal way to converse with this guy, is there?  _

“So,” Grif tried to say but was stopped by the cake still in his mouth.  _ Ugh, gross. _ “What brings you here?”

Simmons sputtered. “What? This is my regular place to go to eat!”

“So you agree, they do have good cake?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, some of us eat with our health in mind.”

“Suit yourself.” The fork scraped against the plate as Grif tried to eat the last of the frosting. Simmons’ food was dropped in front of him, the waitress sending him a small smile before bustling off to serve other customers. He could feel his neck heating up. The woman had tried to flirt with him before. He just didn’t have the courage to tell her off. Or say anything to her at all for that matter. Girls were...scary. 

“You playing again this upcoming week?” Grif asked. Simmons paused, fork over his salad. It wouldn’t hurt to tell him, right? Kai would anyways once Tucker mentioned it to her.

“Not this Friday, but the next,” he stuffed his mouth, putting an awkward silence between the two. As he swallowed, Grif asked his next, inevitable question.

“What are you guys playing?”

Simmons couldn’t help the retort rolling off his tongue. “Maybe if you show up, you’ll find out and I won’t have to tell you.”

The snort was loud enough for heads in the place to turn towards Grif. “What!?” Simmons exclaimed. “Oh for crying out loud, you don’t have to go, not like I give a shit.”

“No, trust me, I’ll be there. You two are good. Some of the best music I’ve heard.” Grif looked up from his plate, a small smile on his face. Simmons felt his mouth go dry at the compliment. It’s not like he hadn’t been complimented on his playing before. But it never got easier to hear when someone sounded like they genuinely liked it. There were people so much better than he was. He still needed practice. To work. His father thought so. And he was one of the best conductors in the world. If the best thought you could do better, you always could do better. Besides, there were still inconsistencies with his playing. His latest rehearsals were proof of that.

“Well,” Grif said, getting up from the table. “This was a nice chat, but sadly I have to be dragged away by the corporate overlords and dance for them, rake in all that cash I’ll never see.” He collected his plate and cup, looking once more at Simmons before giving a small wave. “Hope to catch you again some other time.”

“Yeah, sure,” Simmons replied, watching Grif as he exited the building and walked across the street. The past fifteen minutes replayed in his head again, the realization of what happened now hitting him. 

Did he just agree to try to talk to that buffoon again? Did he just ask him to watch him play at the bar? That wasn’t Simmons. No, the less people knew him the better it was. He had managed to pull all this off because of that belief. 

Nothing was going to come of this. Simmons would make sure of that. No unnecessary complications. Just playing at the symphony and the bar. That was all he needed. Donut’s friends had done a pretty good job of staying out of his hair. This guy could at least do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a fair amount of chapters of this fic written already and I know roughly where I want to go with it, I just keep rewriting chapters, heck even rereading this chapter I want to rewrite it, it is so heavy in discussion with little description, but I don't even know what to describe and it is hard to describe music despite it being one of the best things about life. But I hope it's ok and I hope to get more chapters out! Thanks for reading!


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